


My Body Aches to Breathe Your Breath

by painted_pain



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, First Time, Jealousy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-31
Updated: 2012-03-31
Packaged: 2017-11-02 20:07:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/372886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/painted_pain/pseuds/painted_pain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the <a href="http://spn-j2-xmas.livejournal.com/">spn_j2_xmas</a>. <i>His lips still have this strange tingle running through them, like an electric current. It’s something new that Sam wants to memorise, be able to tell Dean what happened in each second, just like the way Dean always replays his conquests to Sam, blow by detailed blow.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	My Body Aches to Breathe Your Breath

~*~

  


When Sam opens the door to the motel room, first thing he sees is Dean sitting at the table, cleaning his guns, the low autumn sun coming in through the window and glinting off the metal, sending flashes of silver through the air. Just Dean. Dad’s on a hunt three states over -- a chupacabra or werewolf, Sam isn’t quite sure. Sometimes, each hunt seems to meld together, long gaps where Sam is impossibly furious at Dad, simmering until the day he comes home. Then that anger turns yelling and fights, the burning desire to throw a punch, turns into one big train wreck and he can’t pick it apart to find where it went wrong. But in this moment, all that seems so far away, pushed aside by the smile on his face and the ache in his cheeks from the force of it. Life right now is pretty freaking sweet.   
  
His lips still have this strange tingle running through them, like an electric current. It’s something new that Sam wants to catalogue, this new experience he wants to pull apart and dissect. Wants to memorise it, be able to tell Dean what happened in each second, just like the way Dean always replays his conquests to Sam, blow by detailed blow. And then Sam will mark all the causes and effects and tuck it into some secret corner of his mind to revisit at a later date, just him and keep that all for himself.   
  
He licks his lips, feels them stretch into a smile and then Dean gives him a glare with a strange glint to it, Sam’s eyes dropping to where Dean’s hands are gripping his .45, knuckles white, pale against the warm coloured wood of the table.  
  
“Sam, where the hell were you?!” Dean almost yells it and, oh, Sam gets that glint now. Worry -- fear, maybe -- has thrown that sharp-edged light into Dean’s eyes and Sam takes a step forward, closes the door and leans back against, backpack digging into the dip of his spine, eyes now lowered to the ground. He feels the tips of his ears flush and he scuffed his toe against the dirty, old linoleum.  
  
“Sam?”  
  
“See, I was talking to Lucy, Lucy with the blonde hair, really pretty?” Dean nods. “And we were hanging outside, you know, behind the wall, by the trees on the other side of the parking lot, and we. Umm, we...” Sam pauses, takes a deep breath and looks up then, sees Dean give an exasperated roll of his eyes and waves his hand as if to say ‘and?’ Sam cuts his eyes to the side, can’t help the grin stretching across his face, a great big splash of gleaming white because he knows how Dean will react, will ruffle his hair and say  _Fucking finally, Sammy, thought it was never gonna happen_  with this gleam in his eyes that will spell out in intimate detail how proud he is of Sam. Yeah, Sam knows what will happen and in an excited peak of adrenaline, he yanks of his backpack, throws it onto his bed and runs over to Dean, bouncing on the balls of his feet, delighting in the wide-eyed look of surprise dancing across Dean’s face.  
  
“I kissed her, Dean. We made out for, fuck, at least half an hour.” He laughs, clear and bright. “It was fucking awesome. Like, you wouldn’t even believe!”   
  
Sam thought he knew what would happen but the look on Dean’s face is unexpected, dark and angry and something else, something almost primal, caught in the twisted up angles of his face. Sam’s smile falters, trips and falls, incomprehensibly shocked because he has never, in all his fifteen and a bit years carefully learning every detail he could about his big brother, seen that look on Dean’s face, heated and dangerous in a way that makes Sam feel scared for  _Dean_. The deep set of his eyes marks a look of hatred, and Sam’s seen that so many times before, directed at an evil supernatural thing or at some scumbag who leers at Dean in a way that makes Sam see red, makes him just as angry as it makes Dean. But this look, this look isn’t so precise, so obvious, so easy to break down. Sam doesn’t know how to react to this look, doesn’t understand all its different dimensions or even why it’s there at all.  
  
“Dean?” he says softly, tentatively, and Dean shoots up, knocking his chair to the floor, and running over to stand by the bathroom door, back turned towards Sam.   
  
“I -- Dean, I don’t understand, what,” Sam stops, breath caught in his throat, anger and frustration and hurt making themselves known now, banging against his ribcage. “I thought you’d be happy,” he shouts, wiping furiously at the hot tears stinging his eyes, feeling stupid and ridiculous, like a lost child. He has no idea what the hell is going on.  
  
Dean turns around then, plastic smile pasted across his face, painful to look at, but there’s a fear there, a look like Dean thinks he is falling. “I am happy, Sam. It’s awesome. You’re becoming a man,” a deep breath and the smile relaxes slightly. Sam is so fucking confused. “I never thought it’d happen, I mean, you’re just such a freaking girl.” Dean doesn’t quite look like there’s a yawning chasm opening up beneath his feet anymore, like he’s about to fall off the edge and Sam is too far away to save him. None of this makes any sense.  
  
“Asshole,” Sam mutters, bitter and angry, staring at the rust coloured comforter covering his bed. He hears Dean walk towards him, boots making weird noises when they hit the sticky linoleum. Sam starts when a hand claps him briefly on his shoulder, a flash of warmth that thrums through him before sliding away. He lifts his head to look at Dean. Sam is as tall as him now, probably even taller, but Dean wears combat boots with an inch thick sole, heavy and black and brutish, so right now, Dean is looking down at him, eyes too soft and broken. When their gazes lock, something shifts in the air, this strange tension Sam doesn’t know what to do with, making it harder to breathe, to think.   
  
“Bitch,” Dean says, and it’s an apology, spoken in a tone of voice that’s unfamiliar and yet so Dean. Sam will forgive him because Sam always forgives him, even though he wants to know what’s going on in that twisted head of Dean’s.  
  
Sam huffs out a sigh, crosses his arms. “Jerk.”  
  
Dean claps his shoulder once more and then bends to pick up the chair he’d knocked over, rights it, grabbing his jacket off the floor in a fluid movement that spoke of all those early mornings, sparring, running, learning how their bodies worked. Now nineteen, Dean has a grace that Sam does not, having grown into his height, body filled out, broad shoulders contrasting with the slimness of his hips. Sam is thin and gangly, big hands and even bigger feet, and he knows what Dean looks like, so aware of the contrast. Sam watches how Dean moves when he fights and Sam is self-aware enough that he can recognise his envy, that tinge of hot jealousy that swirls through him every time he looks. Jealousy.   
  
He watches as Dean heads towards the door, patting down his pockets, checking for his wallet, grabbing the keys to the Impala and bouncing them on the palm of his hand and Sam is frozen, feet stuck to the ground.   
  
Wait.  
  
Jealousy. Dean’s reaction starts ticking over in his head, slowed down, pausing at each flash of his green eyes. Had Dean been jealous? Sam shakes his head, welcomes the sting of his bangs whipping into his eyes. Jealousy? That doesn’t make any sense --  
  
“Alright Sam, I’m gonna get pizza, we gotta mark this milestone in your life.” Dean smirks over his shoulder, hand on the open motel room door, the number twenty-six glinting in the setting sun, and it looks exactly like what Sam had wanted to see before. But now, gears turning in Sam’s head at warp speed, the beginnings of realisation thrilling through him; but now --  
  
“I mean, what with your scrawny ass and girly hair, who knows when it’s gonna happen again.” Dean’s smirk is beautiful, the perfect replica but it’s not real, not fully and it falters under Sam’s scrutiny. Dean coughs and Sam snaps out of it, realising he had been staring at Dean’s lips. Sam clears his throat and manages to keep his voice steady as he says, “Shut up, Dean. You just wish you had my flowing locks.” He tosses his head with a dramatic flair, trying so very hard to keep the protective film covering this awkward tension, this barrier, for his own safety and for Dean’s.  
  
Dean snorts, loud and unexpected, and it pulls a smile out of Sam. “Yeah, yeah, Sam, whatever helps you sleep at night.”  
  
Sam makes a ‘pfffft’ sound, waves his hand dismissively, slotting back into roles they’ve carved out together, the over-protective womaniser and his snot-nosed kid brother. It works the best like this, as a buoy, a floating device, that saves them both from drowning.  
  
“You better go get the pizza, dude, make up for all this irreparable emotional damage,” Sam says, forcing an indignant impatience into the tone because that is how this works.  
  
Dean says nothing then, gives Sam one final glance, smile tight but genuine, and walks out, closing the door behind him. A few minutes later, Sam hears the deep-throated roar of the Impala and the crunch of the gravel as it pulls out of the motel parking lot, leaving a pounding ache in the centre of his chest. Sam needs to sit down. Needs to figure out what’s going on, figure out how the hell everything just flipped around, pulling the carpet out from underneath him, no longer sure of his footing. Sam makes his way on unsteady legs over to his bed, the one furthest from the door, shoves his backpack to the floor with a loud thump, for once not caring about his books, mind reeling, ears buzzing, and flops down onto it, rolling over onto his back. He stares at the damp stains on the ceiling.  
  
An hour ago, Sam had had his first kiss, shy and chaste, just the slight press of lips together. Half an hour ago, he had said goodbye to Lucy, lips puffed and throbbing, spit-slick, his nerves tingling, palms sweating, heart racing. Ten minutes ago, he had been excited and nervous and filled with anticipation. But now, now he is hollowed out, empty, overwhelmed with this part of Dean Sam has never seen before, never been privy too, a part he doesn’t understand.   
  
Sam doesn’t want to think about this anymore. There are so many questions he can’t answer, all these angles and sharp edges that dig into him, pieces that don’t fit together no matter how hard he pushes. Sam wants to pretend that what he saw wasn’t jealousy, pretend entirely that Dean hadn’t responded that way. He wants to rewind the clock to the precise moment before he opened his mouth and instead just shrug his shoulders, sling his backpack onto the floor by his bed, take out his books and do his homework, study.   
  
Frustration zings through him and he sighs loudly in the empty motel room. He’s getting nowhere, mind spinning in useless circles with no answers and no explanations. It will take Dean maybe half an hour to get the pizza and Sam hopes that he doesn’t take any longer, further breaking the routine of normalcy they had fallen into in the weeks since Dad left.   
  
Sam watches shadows twist and shift across the ceiling and walls, the approaching night colouring everything in darkness, as the sun slowly disappears. Sam tilts his head to stare at where the light by the table is on from when Dean was taking apart and cleaning the guns, the artificial yellow light making the metal gleam a burnished umber. His vision starts to swim, seeing double, the light throwing a kaleidoscope reflection up against the wall.  
  
Time slips by and Sam is startled out of his trance by the rumbling of the Impala and the strip of carlights beaming through the partially closed curtains of the window. He hears that distinctive creak and slam of the car door opening and closing and Sam flips on the light by his bedside locker as the motel room door swings open. Sam sits up and rubs his eyes with the back of his left head, feeling disorientated, as Dean deposits the pizza onto the table, his back to Sam. Dean starts to put away the guns, putting them back together and stowing them back into the duffel bag that rests against one of the tables’ legs. Sam catches him stealing a glance over his shoulder and Dean clears his throat, taking of his jacket and hanging on the back of a chair as he says, “You fall asleep, Sammy?”  
  
Groggy and slightly disoriented, Sam replies with a low sound of agreement and rubs at his sore eyes, pushing his palms up and out, pulling and stretching the skin. He drops his hands to his lap, his shoulders dropping, pulling his legs up so he can sit with them crossed. Sam inhales the delicious smell of the pizza that is curling around the room and his stomach makes a loud insistent gurgle. He wraps his arms around his middle in a soft huff of embarrassment and Dean laughs, a low rumble that vibrates through Sam.  
  
“Guess we better start feeding that monster, Sam, or it’s going to eat you from the inside out.” He says it with a grin and Sam smiles back sheepishly, not daring to check how real that grin is or isn’t. Sam wants something black and white right now, not interested in the shades of grey that always surround Sam and his brother.   
  
“And because this is such a momentous occasion, you’re first kiss and all,” Dean pauses, Sam quietly ignoring the strain that had been in Dean’s words, waiting for his next cue. “By the way, Sam, kissing your own hand doesn’t count.”  
  
Sam rolls his eyes. “Yeah, ha ha, Dean, you’re a fricking riot, you are.”  
  
Dean mock bows, pizza box carefully balanced in one hand. “I do try,” he says in a snooty tone so unlike himself that Sam bursts into a peel of laughter and Dean quickly follows him. The laughter fills the empty spaces and untold things looming in the corners, smoothing out the tension and lessening it by degrees. Sam finds it easier to breathe then.   
  
It eventually fades out and Sam’s left with a warm buzzing sensation in his stomach. Dean smiles at him, fondness cutting softly into the edges. It’s a good look on him, Sam thinks briefly.  
  
“As I was saying, seeing as this is such a huge achievement for you, we can eat the pizza on the beds,” Dean grins as he walks over to his bed. As he sits down on it, Sam makes a scoffing noise.   
  
“For fuck’s sake, Dean, we eat on the beds pretty much every goddamned night!”   
  
Dean points a finger at Sam and says in a stern voice, “Better watch that mouth of yours, Sam.”  
  
Sam responds with a derisive, “Oh, bite me.” And then watches with a rapt fascination as a blush makes its way up the sides of Dean’s neck and onto his cheeks, making his freckles stand out. Dean opens his mouth, his lips moving but now words come out. Dean puts the pizza box on the bed beside him, grabs the remote off of the bedside locker and then finally manages to say something.  
  
“Yeah, whatever, Sam.” Dean’s voice is slightly husky and it thrills through Sam unexpectedly. “Right, as I was saying,” Dean continues, “pizza, bed, but with the TV. That alright with you, Mr. Fancy Pants?”   
  
Sam nods emphatically, himself now stuck for words as Dean looks over at him. Unsure of what to do now, Sam just waves towards the pizza box and makes ‘gimme gimme’ gestures with his hands. Dean opens the box, steam curling up from the surprisingly still hot pizza. Sam’s mouth drops open then because the pizza is  _vegetarian._  No meat in sight.  
  
“You. You got vegetarian? Not pepperoni or some other meat-drenched pizza?” Sam stutters.  
  
Dean looks up from where he’s tearing the lid of the pizza box off to make an impromptu plate for Sam and shifts uncomfortably on the bed, clearly embarrassed.  
  
“It’s your favourite, right?”  
  
“Uh, yeah,” Sam says softly as he takes the lid with four slices of pizza on it. The gap between they’re beds is ridiculously small, barely two feet and their hands brush. “Thanks,” he murmurs and Dean settles back against his headboard, looking even more embarrassed but strangely pleased as well.   
  
“Just don’t get used to it, Sammy, okay? I ain’t eating this shit every day,” Dean grumbles half-heartedly, a tiny smile tucked into the corner of his mouth, and he stares straight ahead, turning the TV on with a click of the remote. Sam watches the light flicker across Dean’s face and then looks away, down at the pizza lying on his lap. He smiles at it and then lifts up a slice.  
  
Dean keeps switching through the channels until he catches a glimpse of an explosion lighting up the screen, red and orange and yellow dancing on the plain off-white walls.  
  
“Awesome,” Dean crows through a mouthful of half chewed pizza, grinning madly when the face of Bruce Willis appears onscreen. “It’s  _Die Hard_ , Sammy!” There’s a bout of gunfire and Dean punches a fist in the air.  
  
Sam rolls around the bed with laughter, careful not to knock his pizza onto the floor. Dean looks like a delighted child, eyes wide and white teeth glinting, his little boy smile.  
  
“Yippee-kay-aye, motherfucker,” Sam yells, his voice bouncing around the room, making Dean choke on his mouthful, coughing and spluttering. Sam snorts, leans over the gap and slams his fist onto Dean’s back. Dean jolts forward, nearly smashes his face into his pizza, the most comical look of surprise and shock splashed across his face.  
  
“Jes’ fuckin Christ, Sammy, what the fuck?!” he shouts, hands slapping at Sam’s but he’s too busy laughing to answer. He pulls his arm back to clutch at his middle, folded over, giggling now, crying he’s laughing so hard, greedily sucking in air, gasping. Dean glares at him, heated, almost furious, except for the mischievous glint in his eyes that Sam suddenly becomes wary of. Dean reaches over and grabs Sam’s pizza, then his own, leans back and places it slowly on the other side of the bed. Sam has quietened down now, an unfamiliar exhilaration spiking in his blood, anticipation curling in his gut. He licks his lips as Dean begins to turn around to face him and then Sam shoves him, breaking out into chuckles as Dean falls back, nearly slides off the bed.  
  
“Jesus -- oh, it is on now,” Dean practically growls and then he launches himself at Sam, hands grappling, smacking, trying to get purchase. They roll of the bed, kicking and cursing, and land on the floor with a thump, Dean grunting and Sam saying, “Ah, fuck,” as Dean lands on top of him, almost perpendicular, limbs splayed, forcing the air out of his lungs in a rush. Sam gets his hands under Dean’s ribs, scrabbling for purchase, legs kicking out, tucking his knees up and under.   
  
Dean smashes his hand into Sam’s face, looks over his shoulder and grins at him. “Thought I told you to watch your mouth, Sammy.”   
  
Sam snorts. “Yeah, hey pot, meet kettle.” He smacks Dean on the shoulder, puts all his strength behind it, making Dean jerk and yelp.  
  
“You little bitch!” And Dean shoves him, shifts around to pin him to the ground, traps Sam’s leg with his own. Sam glares at Dean’s smiling face, wriggles around under Dean’s weight, writhes against the pressure. He bucks his hips and Dean’s jaw goes slack, face impossibly close to Sam’s own. The fingers curled in his t-shirt go slack and Sam shifts again, causing Dean to suck in a stuttered breath. There is something in Dean’s eyes that Sam wants to explore but Dean is vulnerable right now and Sam shoves up and over, catching Dean off guard and pinning him. Sam grabs Dean’s wrists, slams them down into the crappy brown motel carpet, his face splitting in a triumphant grin.  
  
Dean looks shocked, his eyes open and wide, a ring of white around his irises, unfettered by all the walls Sam gets blocked by in his quest to know everything about his big brother. Sam is straddling Dean’s waist, leaning forward to keep pressure on his wrists and they are so close, sharing the same breath. Dean’s chest is heaving, a scared look trembling across his face, and he shifts, his hips sliding up against Sam and Sam gasps at the feel of something hot and hard pushing into him, the bulge trapped in Dean’s jeans. An impossibly hot flush runs through him and Sam watches in stupefied confusion as Dean turns his head to the side, eyes closed, whispering, “Sam, please. Sorry.” He tumbles over the words now picking up speed, “I’m sorry, God, I’m sorry.” Dean’s lips press together tightly, this white line Sam wants to lick away.   
  
“Dean, just, just shut up for a minute, okay? I’m not mad. I’m not.” And his voice breaks on the last word because there are images blazing trails through his mind, quick as lightening and suddenly every thought is illuminated, magnesium flash of understanding.  
  
Sam sees Lucy in his mind, Lucy, with her dirty blonde hair, bright green eyes, plush lips and that small scattering of freckles over the bridge of her nose. So like Dean in so many ways Sam had never been consciously aware. Sam had always wanted to know everything about Dean but now, now Sam wants to  _be_  everything to Dean. Something lights up bright in his chest, licks at his skin with invisible flames and Sam says his brother’s name in an impossibly desperate voice. Dean shudders and slowly opens his eyes, almost black with heat and fear. Sam makes sure he has Dean’s attention and the he presses his hips down into Dean’s, watches with satisfaction as Dean’s back arches in a perfect bow.  
  
“ _Sam_ ,” Dean groans, a low, guttural tone that has Sam panting open-mouthed, pressing down again and again and again, sparks of pleasure zipping up his spine. Sam takes his hands from Dean’s wrists, moves then down to cup Dean’s cheeks, rubbing his thumbs along the edge of his cheekbones. Sam’s mind whirls, the softness of Dean’s skin making him lose his train of thought. He was going to say something but now he can’t think, can barely breathe. Sam has never looked for this, watching the way Dean’s pupils dilate, how his breath becomes laboured, how he rubs up against Sam; he never expected it. But now Sam can’t think about wanting anything else, the heat beneath his thighs lighting him on fire, the way he can feel Dean’s ribs expand and contract.  
  
Dean’s eyes are so green, staring up at him with a weird sort of wonder threaded through them. Sam suddenly feels so self-conscious. He blushes furiously, takes his hands off Dean’s face and watches them as they make their way down Dean’s neck, until they stop, curled in the neckline of the grey t-shirt Dean is wearing.  
  
“Dean,” Sam chokes out, staring at how the fabric wraps around his fingers.   
  
“Yeah,” Dean whispers in a strained tone. “Whatcha doing here, Sammy?”   
  
Sam gulps, screws up his courage and says, “Before, when I told you about Lucy, were you. Dean, were you jealous?”  
  
Dean freezes, all of a sudden so still he could be a statue and Sam freezes with him. Dean swallows thickly, barely audible over the sound of an explosion coming from the TV. They both start at the noise, jerking even closer together, their noses bumping gently against each other. They stare at each other for a long, suspended moment.  
  
“Dean. Were you jealous?”  
  
Dean nods once and Sam flushes warm all over, tilts his head so his lips graze Dean’s, feather light, a tease. Sam looks at Dean’s dark eyes, almost black in the darkened room, arousal pulling at the edges, says, “Why?”  
  
Some part of Sam knows that Dean won’t answer that, not yet, anyway, and isn’t exactly disappointed when Dean stays mute. Sam leans back, balances on his elbows and straightens out on top of Dean, legs shifting back and when he slides his leg between Dean’s, they both moan, everything so tightly wrapped in Sam’s gut, his cock so heavy and aching. Dean bends his leg, giving Sam more leverage, more friction and it spins through him, weighted and delicious. He brings his hands up, smoothes them down Sam’s back, rests them on his hips.  
  
Sam brings his face back to hover over Dean’s, mesmerised by the pink flush high on his cheeks, his spit-slick lips. The air rests heavily on him, thick and full of unspoken promises, unhidden desire. If Dean won’t answer, Sam will just to do it for him.  
  
“Did you want me for yourself, hmmm? Want to look after me, take care of me?” Sam nuzzles against the side of Dean’s face, brings his lips to trace his ear, relishing the sharp gasps that come from Dean, vibrating beneath him. “Did you want to be my first, Dean,” Sam whispers, “want to mark me, own me, make me never want anyone else?”   
  
“Sam,” Dean growls, a warning for Sam to stop pushing but Sam wants to push, break down this final barrier, break Dean open and see everything. Sam  _wants._  Wants to be owned by Dean, marked up, no one else’s but Dean’s.  
  
Sam presses his leg closer against Dean’s groin, pushes down on Dean’s leg, grinds against him in tight, controlled circles, sweat collecting at his temples, the small of his back, the backs of his knees. He’s too hot, far too hot, and he won’t back down now, not until he gets what he wants.  
  
“Dean,” Sam pants, “did you want to be the first to see me like this, be the first to taste me, huh, Dean?” Dean pushes up against Sam and Sam can feel him against his hip, impossibly hard through all the layers, can feel his breathe caress his own ear, brush against it, his moans helplessly loud.   
  
“Bruise me, use me, mark me up, my lips all red and --“   
  
Dean’s hands grab the side of his face and he crushes their lips together, hard and punishing, before he pulls back, looking Sam in the eyes, face twisted into something primal and fierce, eyes glinting with a possessive streak that makes Sam grin and kiss Dean back, less brutal this time, an exploration, lips pressing together, sliding, learning the feel. Dean nips at Sam’s lower lip and sucks it into his mouth, tongue snaking along it soothingly. Sam moans, helpless and loving it.  
  
His lip is released, throbbing, and Dean stares at Sam, grits out, “No more talking, Sam.” Sam nods furiously, eyes tracking the movement of Dean’s lips intently, licks his own and groans happily when Dean recaptures his mouth, taking control. It’s fast and messy, Dean’s tongue thrusting shallowly into Sam’s mouth, testing, tasting. Their lips slide against each other, slick with spit, and Sam’s lips are pulsing in time with his heartbeat. Dean flicks his tongue up to learn the grooves of the roof of Sam’s mouth and Sam shudders, lost to the sensation. Dean pulls back, tongue tracing along Sam’s lips, shoving his hips up to grind into Sam’s. He moves to mouth along Sam’s jawline, sucking marks into the skin, biting and then soothing it with his tongue. Sam’s hips jerk uncontrollably, white hot heat curling low in his gut, his cock so impossibly hard, the friction almost unbearable but not enough.  
  
“God, Dean, please, more, please.”  
  
Dean makes his way up to Sam’s ear, sucks hard on the lobe and Sam feels his toes curl, his eyes rolling back in his head when Dean bites it, tugging it none too gently. Sam is distracted when Dean suddenly flips them, disorientated by the switching of their positions, making a small confused sound. Dean is lying on top of him and he grins at Sam, presses his hips down, fanning the flames that are spreading out from low in Sam’s stomach. Dean goes back to laving at Sam’s ear, suckling the lobe, breathing heavily into Sam’s ear, making Sam groan loud and long, eyes fluttering closed.   
  
“No one else, Sammy, no one else gets to have this, you understand me?” Dean rumbles into Sam’s ear, low and feral. He bites at the spot just beneath when Sam doesn’t answer immediately, prompting him to answer with a, “Yes, Dean,  _fuck_ , no one else,” and buck his hips, frenzied.  
  
“Only me, just me. Only I get to take care of you, right, Sammy?” And Sam nods frantically, the need winding him up higher and higher, panting, sweat sliding down his neck and Dean leans down to lick a droplets trail, licks back into Sam’s mouth, pulling at Sam’s lips, tracing his teeth with his tongue. Sam slides his tongue against Dean’s, the slick texture the only thing he can focus on so it takes him a moment to register Dean’s hand moving down his chest, thumbing open his jeans and pulling the zipper down.  
  
Sam is making desperate, needy sobbing sounds into Dean’s mouth, eyes squeezed shut. Dean pulls back and noses gently at Sam’s temple, whispers soothing, nonsensical noises as his hand reaches into Sam’s boxers and pulls his cock out. Dean’s hand is rough and calloused and warm, and Sam shouts with the first pull, with complete sensory overload. He thrashes his head back and forth, babbling Dean’s name over and over again, hips jerking up into Dean’s firm grasp. Sam can feel how easily Dean’s grip slides up and down his cock and knows how wet he must be, steadily leaking precome.   
  
“I’m going to make you feel so good, Sammy,” Dean groans, his hips grinding down onto Sam’s thigh, “so good, I promise.”  
  
Sam can feel himself winding up tighter and tighter, pleasure spiralling through him, his thighs quivering and his skin feels flushed, red and sweat damp.   
  
“Open your eyes,” Dean hums and Sam does without hesitation. Dean pumps his fist faster and faster, grip tightening, and he looks Sam straight in the eyes as he says in a clear, direct voice, “Mine. You’re mine.” Sam swallows, can feel himself brushing up against that razor-sharp edge, ready to fall down the other side.  
  
“Come for me, Sammy.”   
  
And Sam does. He comes on command, mouth working around a silent scream, hips pushing up, muscles locking, his orgasm firing through him, bright, white pleasure that sends fireworks tripping along his nervous system. Sam feels each pulse bounding through him, Dean rocking his own hips in time, murmuring, “That’s it, Sam. Fuck, yeah, that’s it.”  
  
Sam collapses, limbs weak and trembling, each aftershock jerking through him, Dean working him through it. He feels weak but incredibly satisfied, the remnants of his orgasm making him relaxed and sated. Sam slaps Dean’s hands away when his cock gets over-sensitive.  
  
Dean is still rocking his hips against Sam, his rhythm faltering as he gets closer and closer. Sam bites his lips, not sure of what to do.  
  
“Dean, what do you want, what should I do?”  
  
Dean doesn’t answer him, just grabs Sam’s hand and pushes the flat of his palm right up against the hard ridge of Dean’s cock in his jeans. Sam feels his own dick give a feeble twitch at the feel of his hand cupping Dean. Sam shifts his hand and rubs his palm in small concentric circles up and down Dean’s cock, his finger pressing gently against the heavy weight of Dean’s balls. Dean moans loudly into Sam’s ear.  
  
“Yeah, Sammy, like that, like that, don’t stop.” And Dean shivers, Dean’s hips rolling, picking up speed and Sam presses his face into Dean’s neck, bites at the straining tendons there, can feel Dean trembling against him.   
  
“Yours, Dean,” Sam says and then squeezes Dean’s cock, his long fingers reaching further back to press hard the spot just behind Dean’s balls. Dean makes a broken noise and shudders, hips still rocking and comes, warm dampness spreading through the jeans and Sam can feel it, the cloying heat clinging to his fingers.  
  
Dean rolls off Sam and flops down beside him, panting, trying to get his breath back. Sam stares at Dean, feeling burst open and made anew, his old skin lying in tatters around him. Sam knows this intimate part of Dean that he never had before, tucked away under all these layers of denial, and Sam relishes it. They slot better together now, no longer just Dean and his kid brother, Sam, but something more, something indefinable and new but as strong as everything that came before. He grins at Dean and Dean grins back, walls broken down, eyes open and honest.  
  
Sam looks away first, smiles up at the damp-stained ceiling, indescribably happy. Dean lets out a short burst of disbelieving laughter.  
  
“Well, that sure was something, Sammy.”  
  
“Yup,” Sam agrees, cutting his gaze to the side just in time to see Dean look down at his own shirt, grimacing as he says, “Man, you did not just get splooge on my t-shirt. I will fucking kill you.”  
  
Sam winks at Dean, grinning incandescently, says cheekily, “Nope, you won’t.”  
  
Dean pretends to think about it for a moment before answering with a nonchalant ”Nah, I won’t.” He scratches his cheek thoughtfully, grinning mischievously. “I mean, you’re just too good a lay.”  
  
Sam flushes, a warm, pleased feeling bounding through him and then he grabs the pillow from off his bed and smacks it straight onto Dean’s face, laughing at the hilariously indignant spluttering noises Dean makes.  
  
“Fuck you, Sammy,” Dean grumbles.   
  
It’s Sam’s turn to look thoughtful before shooting a heated gaze at Dean.  
  
“Maybe if you ask nicely,” he says, low and dark, and watches with curling arousal as Dean crawls up Sam’s body, licking his lips with intent.  
  
“Maybe,” Dean murmurs before leaning down and kissing Sam, slows and sweet.  
  
“Maybe.”

  
  


~*~


End file.
